High For This
by JPLE
Summary: Insanity and drugs. Bellatrix in drabbles. Pure indulgence and disorganized thought. Mature for a plethora of bad language, overly frequent drug use and overtly sexual situations.
1. Smoke

Two puffs for the lady who be down for that  
>Whatever, together<br>Bring your whole stash of the greatest  
>Trade it, roll it up, burn it up, cough it up, taste it<br>And then watch us chase it  
>With a handful of pills<br>No chasers  
>Jaw clenching on some super-sized papers<br>She bad and her head bad, escaping, van is a wonderland  
>And its half-past six<br>Weed's nice cause time don't exist

* * *

><p>It's fully alight, the smoke tumbling into the night as she inhales as deeply as she can.<p>

Her red lips purse around the end lazily, just enough to hold it there, imprinting the white and grey with bloody red and lust. She sucks and sucks until her lungs have reached maximum capacity, and then she holds and waits. The longer she waits the better it is, the better the reward, the better the escape.

When it feels enough, or enough to allow her to exhale normally and not cough like a bitch who's in it for the first time she exhales fully, breathing it out in a cloudy mass of smoke, letting he head fill with airiness and pleasure. It really could do things Rodolphus would only dream of. It was better than life, it was better than inflicting pain.

She leans back haphazardly against the wall and ashes all over her bare legs, spiralling confetti drifting, hot, down to her thighs singeing them, hurting, pain.

Dreams, smoke, time.

Black. Like Bella.

Only she hates Bella, she _fucking_ hates Bella and her _fucking_ joke of a life. She could be so much more, so much more.

The power, oh the fucking _power_.

She is invincible.

More smoke, spirals, confetti, dust.

Kites.

A single malt would go damn well with this because her throat is dry and lips are parched.

She loved the feeling of time, there was no time, time was in joints and she had four left.

Four. Five. Eighty-Nine. Who the _fuck_ cared.

And she lit up again.

* * *

><p><strong>The Weeknd - Glass Table Girls<strong>


	2. Crystals

Cause with this money comes problems  
>and with these problems comes solutions,<br>And I use em'  
>When I'm faded i forget<p>

* * *

><p>She'd always been fucking crazy. Felt so fucking crazy, but never acted so crazy. Crazy on the inside, restrained on the outside. Crazy like the powder in front of her, taunting.<p>

Glass tables, so clear, so simple.

_Fuck the restraint._

Sometimes wild, irrational, like an undomesticated animal, prowling through the corridors and up and down the stairs, lashing out on the inside. Invincible. All powerful, lucky, amazing. She'd scream instead of laugh and laugh instead of cry. And it all made perfect sense in her eyes.

Sometimes catatonic. Absolutely listless, nothing distracted her quite like it. She could stare at her bedroom wall for twenty four hours straight. Not eat, not sleep, not drink. Or her mother would interrupt her and ask her why she was being so lazy and useless and she would look into her mother's penetrating stare completely blank. Eyes simply vacant. Feeling like she could have easily been a corpse.

And she could have been. She would have liked to have been, some days.

But crazy was like that. Crazy made her too tired and listless to even move, let alone find, or even _think_ of a way to do it.

And within two days it would change. She would be invincible again.

When she was nine it became clear. Mother denied it, Father fought it, Sister couldn't understand it, Little Sister cried. And she shut herself away.

Little sister couldn't have understood it if she tried. She was perfect and beautiful, long blonde hair, blue inquisitive eyes, pale skin, red lips. She was the angel in a house full of devils.

Bellatrix; so dangerous, so volatile.

There were doctors and drugs. And mother had told her never to talk to the doctor, that only she would; only she would because the doctor _wasn't like us_ and therefore he _just didn't understand._

Doctor said things like 'early emergence', 'rare', 'very developed' and 'severe' quite frequently. And Mother controlled her temper well in his presence, her hand twitching towards her wand beneath her robes. She would unleash at home, and scream and rant and Father would disarm her before she could do some serious damage to the sacred tapestries.

Doctor was a muggle. The thought of it.

There were little white crystals that she had to mix into drinks or press onto her tongue and _swallow, swallow, swallow_ until Mother could see nothing in her mouth. The little white tins which Mother had pleaded for even though Doctor had said that it was simply a test, that they didn't know yet if it _really worked_.

She was a lab rat.

But she felt flat. So flat. Not low, deep down low; how she felt when she stared at her bedroom walls for hours. Not high, like when she could do _anything_ and it would be okay tomorrow.

She felt like nothing. And it was worse.

There was nothing lovely about those crystals that glittered in her hand like a thousand twinkling stars. Nothing lovely about their pure white colour, their texture, their consistency. Nothing lovely like the white powder laid out before her now.

Nothing was clearer: Don't tell, don't speak. No one can know.

_No one will fucking know Bellatrix!_

Not one.

Not Walburga or Orion or Ignatius or Lucretia.

Not the first born Black of the new generation. Crazy.

No one would know that Black blood was tainted; no one could know that something had misfired and something had gone _absolutely fucking wrong._

So wrong.

And she switched crystals.

* * *

><p><strong>The Weeknd - Coming Down<strong>


	3. Red Devils

They see my brain melting,  
>and the only thing I tell them is I'm living for the present and the future don't exist.<br>So baby take your clothes for a chance like this.

I think you lost your morals girl, but it's okay 'cause you don't need them where we're going.

* * *

><p>These were the happiest days of her life, and still they were filled with an inordinate amount of trouble and debauchery. Perhaps that's how she liked it best, so fucking mixed up and hallucinatory. Everything multicoloured and forever phasing in and out of consciousness.<p>

In a world where badness wasn't black but red and bad boys weren't heartbreakers but anyone immune to her will and wish. Those who resisted following her around, hanging off her lace or following with lustful eyes.

Boys, she was told, would ruin her, hurt her, use her. Oh poor **innocent** Bella, sweet, **unstable** Bella. Boys, she found, were too easy to mould to her wishes, too easy to corrupt, too stupid to notice.

And there were girls, girls with demure, watery blue eyes behind pale lashes. Girls who giggled and whispered 'whore' and other associated terms for females with black hearts and comfortable beds. But she didn't care.

Bella was red.

Red lips, which dripped with lust and desire, the scent of her last victim swirling around her. Lips all too ready to capture another victim, drain it of passion and leave it exhausted on her floor in a heap of clothes. Lips hiding a champion trained tongue, ears accustomed to only the most desperate of moans, the most content of sighs.

Because in worlds of red, where silk sheets were emerald green and soft, where egos and necks were bruised and battered, brains blown and hearts tattered, she was _powerful._ This was her haven, the only place on earth where women who prowled like tigers were worshiped, _freaks_ and anomalies where venerated.

Bella was red.

Bella was black.

Promiscuous flowers everywhere wilted as she glided past, because she wasn't in it because of a broken heart or desperation. She wasn't in it to tease, one who entered into those games just to prove that they did know how to please.

She was a _goddamn slut_, but she was regal. Invitation only.

Dangerous, and boys like that were too intrigued by danger. It was fast, it was exciting. With her it was horrifically hazardous.

Unforgettable, inerasable.

Everything was just _red, red, red._

* * *

><p><strong>The Weeknd - Loft Music<strong>


	4. Charlie

Bring your love baby I could bring my shame,  
>bring the drugs baby I could bring my pain.<br>I've got my heart right here,  
>I've got my scars right here.<p>

* * *

><p>He doesn't love her.<br>He doesn't love her,  
>and that's evident.<p>

She doesn't want love.  
>She doesn't want love,<br>because all she knows is hate and lust,  
>and love is so far from her.<p>

All she needs is strong arms,  
>someone to take control<br>just for once.

She's crazy,  
>always been crazy,<br>always been out of control.

(So sometimes foreign concepts like control are _better than okay_)

It's another anomaly.  
>Another anomaly to be this far in lust<br>that she loses herself.

Loses herself like she's lost so many others  
>in the folds of her sheets,<br>in the expanse of her mind;  
>forgotten.<p>

It's so beautiful  
>and Bella doesn't know beautiful.<br>Not real beauty.

(Desirability and beauty are so _different_ when it comes to girls like her).

Of course she's beautiful,  
>in an ugly sort of way.<br>Ugly heart, ugly soul,  
>enticing mouth.<p>

(You should hear the things said about those lips).

But he's just as bloody.

And of course she needed to be different,  
>to prove that superficially,<br>she could have beauty too.

(And in that way, she and Cissy are _exactly_ alike).

Black women don't have tender touches  
>it's rough,<br>it's rough and hungry.  
>She's ravenous<br>and he is devoured.

Slowly at first,  
>like it's simply a test.<br>To tease and test and then relent  
>into pleasure.<p>

Faster later,  
>building and building<br>and **fucking building**  
>until he simply can't take it<br>and disappears.

She thinks he's weak  
>she could hold and hold and<strong> hold<strong> out  
>just to prove that she's strong.<p>

(**Nothing**is as important as being strong).

But he's different.

He's all white and powdery  
>and physically, that's no shock.<br>But he's beneath that too,  
>deep within,<br>just like her.  
>He's no doll she's created,<br>no innocent she's corrupted.  
>He's that all on his own.<p>

She loves it.  
>She loves it,<br>_god_,  
>she does.<p>

And that's where she's falling faster.  
>Faster and faster into lust.<p>

(Or is it?)

Because she's never seen him.  
>Never seen him,<br>for what he really is  
>before.<p>

Not like this,  
>not like the tiger who can match her,<br>a psychotic  
>mind, all on his own.<p>

She's not looking for love.  
>She <strong>swears<strong> she's not looking for love.  
>She's in lust.<br>She **swears **she's in lust.

No one can crazy her like this  
>no one can make her lose control –<br>and _oh god what was that?_  
>She's completely in control of the situation<br>in as much control as she has ever been.

She's always used these boys  
>for pleasure.<br>But pleasures like this?  
>Has she ever known it?<br>She would love to answer  
>herself<br>properly.

The only words coming out of her mouth  
>well, they aren't words.<br>There's no sentences,  
>or phrases,<br>or even colloquialisms with no real structure.  
>They're just incomprehensible.<br>**Incomprehensible**  
>murmers.<p>

Lust,  
>love,<br>loveliness.

Hands,  
>hands so rough and crude.<br>Hands she used to lust after but cannot any longer  
>take him away from her.<p>

And she hands Charlie to Rodolphus.

* * *

><p><strong>The Weeknd - Wicked Games<strong>


	5. Black Hash

This is a happy house,  
>we're happy here<br>in a happy house.

* * *

><p>For others around her, for others who could stay within those perimeters of constant confusing actions and toxic personality, there was something about her to behold.<p>

She was attractive, she had presence.

(Some kind of unknown force which inevitably told you _danger! Danger!_ And _run, run, run)._

She had some kind of power. Power which was constrained exactly to her will. As if she could draw it in like a shield and flexibly hold it around her body. Expand it with deliberate force, knock useless pawns over, scatter them around the floor like the queen in a game of exceptionally violent wizards chess.

(It was like nothing else anyone had seen).

She was never told she was academic, nor exceptionally gifted. She wasn't topping potions and she was rather useless at herbology. But anyone who saw her perform, like the dancer, chaotic on the stage, she was powerful.

_Bloody fucking hell Bella, you're powerful._

Shit, she was. It was her solstice. She had power.

(and wasn't that attractive?)

She had the power to make others hurt, to make them scream, make them curse or writhe in pain. Pawns again, in her game, sacrificed for her greater good. She was yet to meet her king.

(Yet to meet her match, someone just as powerful and shit crazy).

Someone she could follow without feeling demeaned. For she really was her own soul, untamed.

(fucking wild).

Oh Bella. Bella, Bella, Bella. Why did you do that? Mess everything up? You're a _fucking disgrace child!_

Her mother's voice was ringing, ringing loud and unbearable through her ears. Ears made of porcelain, breakable, soft and weak.

(Words, she found, were like water to her fire, like fire to her ice).

And mama knew how to use it. Use it, control it, unleash it. Break her down to powder, blow her around like careless wind.

Mama was speaking, speaking in her mind, echoing off her skull, ricocheting through her brain, firing off like a synapse, secreting hatred like an overworked pituitary gland.

_She didn't mean it, she's sixteen, so young, and can't you see I'm trying so hard with this disobedient child?_

She could see the ministry shaking their heads and pursing their lips into thin lines, looking her over, broken and bruised by the only women who knew how to hurt her.

Hereditary? No. Heritage. Heritage hysteria.

And they were gone.

Sirius was snarling, teeth flashing at her like a dog. She would have supposed it was threatening for a boy of eight years. He positioned himself defensively, facing her with vicious eyes, back to Regulus who cowered in the corner, screaming and crying.

Six years old and blessed with the curse. What a wonder.

(and she hated children).

Weak, weak, children, screaming. Nothing Bella would have cared for. Mother running, Walburga striding in like the matriarch she was and flicking her wand unexpectedly at Bella, sending her flying into the opposite stone wall, crumpling to the floor as the curse ached on her right shoulder.

Walburga, tossing Sirius aside as she set Regulus straight, giving him a harsh once over and silencing both boys with little more than a threatening glance.

Her aunt commanded attention. Mama was bland in her presence, and Bella realised what power was, _who_ power was.

And Walburga Black turned her wand on Bella again.

* * *

><p><strong>The Weeknd - House of Balloons<strong>


	6. Acid

And I'm going to give you girl,  
>what you need.<br>I'm the drug in your veins,  
>just fight through the pain.<p>

* * *

><p>All this started, really, truly started with him.<p>

It was in her desperation, her weakness, her plea for emotion that got her into this mess. This dirty, scornful _wonderful_ mess.

The drugs of doctors had made her flat as a tack. Flat and hopeless, like she couldn't raise an eyebrow on a sarcastic comment, smirk at Malfoy's discomfort in the family home, snigger when the last of the faithful patrons had vacated her dormitory with their shirts crumpled and ties forgotten, hanging around the stands of her four poster bed as a trophy. Flat and emotionless, all whim and wish forgotten in the name of her health.

(Surely it wasn't healthy to feel this way?)

She felt a slip in magic when she took the little lithium crystals, a little lapse in power, and it made her feel worthless. She may as well have been a muggle.

(or a squib, there was one somewhere up the family tree).

So she stopped taking them. It really **was** as simple as that. Nothing in her life had ever been so easy.

Mama had told her _don't you dare Bellatrix, you'll kill us all with your psychobabble_. But since when had mama been right? She hadn't been able to get out of bed for weeks now, and it was really just a sign of more useless things to come.

And she'd snapped out of it. Snapped out of stupor with a click of her bony fingers; she was real again, felt alive again.

There were ups and downs like nothing else, at first, very violent and tumultuous, later softer, blurring the lines between normalcy and irrationality. So she looked for other avenues of that rush, and it had started with him.

Of course, she was better than him, more powerful, more daring. Of course she had things he didn't, like intelligence (when unmarred by fleeting thoughts and dreary apathy) and (almost) flawless blood lineage.

Of course it was surprising when she ran headlong into his study frame at the opening of the viaduct entrance in her hurry to dispose of a conspicuous pair of Hufflepuff socks late on a Monday night.

(She had always thought Hufflepuffs boring, but really, this one was quite daring).

She remembers his trademark body positioning, casually leaning on the stone wall separating them from the moat. He never seemed to stand or sit, only casually drape himself over some kind of object, his tie always slightly off centre, his top lip curling up to his white teeth.

He laughed at her tossing the socks off the edge and she spun around, all too quickly to avoid his shoulder, which jutted out along the stone. Wary, she stepped back.

'I knew what they said was true.'

'Is it?'

He had piercing blue eyes, probably the only feature about him that mildly attracted her, and she wondered why he hadn't frequented her dormitory yet.

(she longed, in just the moment, to have his tie around her bed stand).

It was the only time she recalled ever feeling something slightly more than pure desire, something that ran a little deeper than lust. It scared her and fluttered around in her stomach for days after their meeting, something she had never had experienced (or desired to ever experience).

His hand drew deeper into his pocket and flourished a small plastic bag, containing two orange pills, lying innocently next to each other.

She frowned and bit her lip impatiently. She wasn't sure whether she should leave or stay, if there was any point in remaining out in the cold any longer.

'Ever wondered how it would feel to fall off this?' he asked, his hand patting the solid wall next to him.

'No one would live to remember' she answered, exasperation growing in her tone.

'I thought you were crazy' he murmured cautiously.

'I'd like to see you jump' she gritted her teeth together, removing her wand from inside her robes. 'Then again, I'm not sure I would have the time' she continued, returning her voice to its former nonchalance and stepping out to enter back into the viaduct entrance.

'Hold on.'

'Why?'

'I want to be crazy with you' he smirked, tossing one of the orange pills towards her.

She nabbed it with her hand, casually turning it over, studying it in the faint moonlight.

'Take it.'

'Why?'

'Because I am. You're not…weaker than me Bella?'

So she violently shoved the orange circle into her mouth and bit hard, cutting her tongue in the process.

And even as she felt the blood from her wound trickling into the bottom of her mouth, her mind was clouded by orange.

Dizzy orange.

He laughed.

* * *

><p><strong>The Weeknd - What You Need<strong>


	7. Lover's Speed

From the morning to the evening,  
>Complaints from the tenant,<br>Got the walls kicking like they're six months pregnant.

All that money, the money is the motive.

* * *

><p>If it was him that started it, lit the flames of addiction and demise, it was also he who coaxed the fire of sin with a red-hot poker over her heart. Jabbing and poking at it until it was as black as her surname, that is, until he got the chance to change it.<p>

Her life was a black hole of sin, _they_ were as sinful as Lucifer himself. Twisting and turning themselves in white, satin sheets, bloodied and dirtied by their bodies. Twisted and turning in white fluffy clouds, breaking through them with imaginations as vivid as the colours of the drugs they popped.

It was too sinful for a Black, _almost_ too sinful for a Lestrange. Although no one really said anything, she remembers, because there were deeper, darker secrets to be kept back then. Runaway cousins and Blood Traitor uncles. For him, a suicidal mother and a _squib sister_, surely Bella would reject such an impure bloodline?

She couldn't. Perhaps it was need, perhaps desire. It was anything other than love.

(It was quite simple in that regard. Bella didn't love.)

Rodolphus didn't love either. It was money, and prestige, she knows. There's no delusion, no mistake, nothing to stop her realising that they were never creatures of compassion with a need for company. Rather, raw and animalistic, as crazy as Bella had ever been and could be.

Rodolphus could make her crazy.

Rodolphus simply had the means to make her crazy, let her lose control and free her from anything holding her back, that was her need. Her purpose for him, his mission to fulfil. It was fortunate for him really, he would never run out of purpose, his job would never be fulfilled.

For her, Gringotts would never run dry, and so she would too, never run out of purpose. She would never lose control over him in a way that he simply couldn't. Money was the motive.

Money was the motive and he was a virgin to its power. Once he dipped a toe in its pool of gold, he couldn't escape the expanse of luxury, the trip it provided, worth far more to him than anything else.

For her the trips were different, there was a separate mechanism, a better release. Something someone as simple and tainted would never understand. Someone not as powerful.

And so it was: an endless cycle of sin. Black as Black and bleeding impurity all over her bedroom floor. He was her slave, her his provider, and never in the history of her life had there been such an exquisitely beautiful role reversal.

He coaxed the flames of sin with his poker because she let him. She let him come closer to trap him. He chose to be the moth entranced by the light because he thought he had the restraint to pull away.

But they each had their purpose, and both served it for the sake of the other. For the sake of need and desire.

For the sake of anything other than love.

* * *

><p><strong>The Weeknd - The Morning<strong>


	8. Coke Broke

You always go to the party,  
>To pluck the feathers off all the birds.<p>

* * *

>She remembers running through palaces of sparkling silver and molten gold, cursing the candles from their holders. She remembers them tumbling through her hands, over her limbs, dodging the glass shards shattering over her head like an entire galaxy of stars. Destruction had the potential to be so beautiful.<p><p>

(More elegant than a Malfoy dinner party, more special than a male heir, but lacking that distasteful blue-blood refinery.)

And they ran, _**oh yes,**_ they could run. Run in a fashion that was much like dancing; a few concerted steps, a pattern, a fluid sequence. They were performers on a stage, a flexible set.

The definite beginning, the defiant entry. A theatrical pose - no need for covert operations, it was simple transparency that worked best (and was the most intimidating). The performers positioned perfectly for the start of the music.

The opening bars, the first movement. Maniacal music in the sound of screams or yells, echoing off the walls of the houses they entered, ringing like a familiar bell, perfectly in time. Their movements; perfectly in sync, fluid and beautiful, colours of spells falling all around them. Smashing into cabinets and doors, flinging themselves off balconies, caressing the wooden fittings with harsh curses.

The build, the gradual swell of the violins. Playing with their dolls before they got to the business that they sought, having their fun before the games were over. Leaping over motionless figures, collateral damage strewn on the ground.

The climax, the height and tension. _Crucio. _Tell us what you know.

_(You know that now we've got no choice.)_

The confusion, the continual music. The desperation, the defiance. The mistaken spell flying over others, frustration its messenger, breaking the group apart.

And information looks just like collateral.

_Fuck._

The end, the retreat. Kicking over bodies, tripping over glass and strewn items, escaping. Curses flying under their breathes, directed at her because something's gotten the better of her again. And she smiles, knowing that sometimes her haste is simply the product of an overactive mind.

(And she better fucking enjoy it now because when he finds out he'll sit you right next to death at his table again.)

But for these moments she's powerful, and she remembers the fame, the notoriety, _almost_ like his own.

In just a few minutes you wouldn't recognise your own house, she was _that_ revolutionary. In just a few minutes, you wouldn't remember your first name, she was _that_ powerful. In just a few minutes, you'd beg her to kill you, she was just _that __**convincing**__._

She giveth and she taketh away. Implanting an ideology by forceful destruction, taking away that chair, those earrings, that last breath.

_Like a hasty puff on that candle, she extinguishes you._

* * *

><p><strong>The Weeknd - The Party &amp; The After Party<strong>_  
><em>


	9. Rohypnol

Now we're lying about the nights,  
>Hiding it all behind the smiles,<p>

Take a look at what you did.

* * *

><p><em>They<em> hadn't been getting along nearly as well as they used to, in the past few years. In fact, things had never been _good_ between them, if one considered that for him, only fitful fornication was _good_ and she was just Bellatrix.

Bellatrix was not a word synonymous with good. (At least in the sense that _good_ things are _pure and untouched_.)

She supposes, (somewhere deep within her mind, relatively capable for rational thought), that it's never been far away. Lurking beneath the veneer of refinery and eloquence, scratching away at the silky black and emerald green surface.

The fact is; she just doesn't have the _time_. There lies a cause much greater than her, something to give herself wholeheartedly to, in a way that _he_ could never understand. He's a mere mortal after all, and what is that in the face of her Lord?

Although, she doesn't think it could have hurt like this. After all, she's been known to find herself caught up in the arms of others before, enticed by their sparkling eyes and fresh-faced youth. Underneath it all she feels _aged_ in a way that only experience could make you, but for twenty-something years old, she's yet to find someone who can pace her like he can. Keep her wound up like a clock.

And there he is, tangled in the black and emerald sheets, swathed over him haphazardly. The slit in the window sends a shaft of pale light over his body, athletic and strong as it always has been. The body that lies next to him is olive-skinned and lithe, sheets strung over her abdomen as her hair lies flung across the satin. _Her_ satin.

Perhaps it isn't jealousy, or even betrayal that tugs at her. It's the thorns she notices; the thorns of disgust wrapping themselves around her heart, prickling her insides that bleed for vengeance.

Is it shame? Probably; that her prowess is comparable to the filth that lies on _her_ side. To think a half-blood could ever match her lineage of powerful and capable ancestors. Their blood runs thick in her veins, pulsating as the cold flush of hatred falls over her like a mist.

As for Rodolphus? Well, there would always be others would there not? She is after all, excitingly dangerous. Dangerous in a way he seems to have misunderstood.

'_Fuck_ Bella, put it away!' he yells, rousing quickly with a flick of her wand. The body of the blonde tumbles to the floor, and through the semi darkness Bellatrix sees slashes of red across her back, accompanied by a rasping moan of pain.

'Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your food,' she hisses, training her wand deliberately on his chest, 'it's _rude_ not to put them out of their misery first.'

'It's more thrilling when they scream,' he challenges, eyeing her deliberately.

'Show me,' she says, turning her wand slightly and muttering under her breath. His body contorts with a jolt and he does indeed scream, although it sounds more furious than it does pitiful. _Shame_.

'_Fuck_!' he screeches, lunging towards her madly.

She laughs humourlessly. Without a wand, how benign.

'You won't kill me,' he challenges, stumbling towards her menacingly, 'you won't kill me because I'm the only one fucking crazy enough to _take you_.'

She laughs harder, the manic peals of sound draping themselves over the room, bouncing off the walls and high ceiling.

It feels good to control someone like this; perhaps he's got the right idea, she thinks, advancing towards him more pointedly. With a flick, he's thrown up again, and lands face down next to his _whore._

'Wake her' she commands, and colours flash again.

* * *

><p><strong>The Weeknd - The Knowing<br>**


	10. High For This

Trust me girl,  
>You wanna be high for this.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Terrified<em>. Absolutely fucking terrified. It's a strange feeling for a girl of nineteen.

(And she's only a fucking child, in some ways.)

But she's always been good at hiding that away. Trapping it, soothing it, living with it (albeit painfully). She's a Black for _fucks sake_, so it's only natural that she's good at hiding what she feels, and what she knows. Deceit is a hereditary thing in that mess of a family.

Besides, Bellatrix doesn't do scared. She fears nothing. 'Too fucking insane' they'd say, and she'd agree. Crazy was better than fearful.

Fear was weak and weakness was a sin.

Lucius always taunted her with that, saying there was a weakness in everyone. He would fucking know too; having a weakness for overt finery, and sinful deeds with his sister in law.

Narcissa was, after all, always too _good_.

She needs to be strong now though, to prove herself. She has a mission, and unless she wants to die in the web of deceit that her _master_ has created, it has to get done.

After all, life has always dealt her those difficult cards. Perhaps it knows she's the only one able to play them. However, she's never been _scared_ of them.

And here she was, looking into the pleading eyes of the prisoner. Matted hair strung around her face. Lips swollen and chapped from crying and _pleading_. _Please, please,please._

But it's the eyes which terrify her. Big and brown, encircled with red rims and showcased in hollow sockets. If killing was easy, murderers never looked into the eyes of their victims, she thinks. And she won't, she wouldn't dare.

Perhaps, just maybe, she _couldn't._

Thatis scary. Mostly because Bellatrix has never thought anything was beyond her. This is something really different.

_Shit_.

A hand rests itself on her shoulder, almost comfortingly. Gripping her bare skin firmly, she spins around.

He can read it in her eyes, she knows. If the eyes are truly the windows to the soul, then the panes must be smashed, because not even a deceiving reflection could mask her fear.

'What do you _want_,' she enunciates, flexing her jaw at the boy (just a boy) standing before her.

Rodolphus smirks, digging around his pockets for a minute, before flourishing a packet of snowy white.

She stares, and understands. The eyes beyond the bar watch in trepidation. Rodulphus simply holds it out expectantly.

'You'll want to be high for this.'

* * *

><p><strong>The Weeknd - High For This<strong>


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